


The Well

by Mamaorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaker Sherlock Holmes, Clever John Watson, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Hypothermia, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, near-drowning, s4 fixit fic, well rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamaorion/pseuds/Mamaorion
Summary: John wakes in freezing water, alone, chained to the bottom of a well. Only one person can possibly save him.This is the s4 well rescue in its entirety, which proves to be the life-threatening moment to finally exhume Sherlock and John's feelings for one another.





	The Well

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my fixit fic Sacre Couer, this will not be new content. That behemoth of a fixit fic was born from my need to write this (preposterously missing) well rescue scene... and then unexpectedly went off for 22 more chapters... 
> 
> I've garnered from some readers that my well scene may be satisfying all on its own for those who aren't in the mood for a big fic or complicated new backstory. The Well recycles Sacre Coeur content into a (much) shorter, tighter lead-up to the explosion of their feelings for one another. 
> 
> This fic assumes the Euros situation is as real as it seems, but I've taken a few liberties. John cannot hear Sherlock in the well through a hidden sound system and 221B did not blow up. With the general weirdness of s4, I hope you'll forgive me some creative license there.

 

John startles awake with a gasp. He peers into the dark.

 _Wet and cold. In... water?_  
  
His hands slide across algae-slick stone – an instinctive revulsion surges him upward, only to stumble and pitch forward into the shallow pool. Something is tugging at his leg, holding him back. For a brief moment, every horror movie fear skitters through his mind.

Spluttering, John twists around and gropes through the dark water. A tight metal cuff is sealed around his ankle with a heavy padlock, connected to an arm's length of rusty chain bolted to the floor.

Standing more carefully this time, John rubs his hands onto his sodden jacket, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Rough fieldstone walls curve around him, mossy and slick with moisture. His eyes follow the walls up, up into darkness.

No. Not darkness.  _Stars._         

“Christ,” he whispers. “It’s a damn well.” As John takes a step toward the wall, the water sloshes around his calves. It’s gotten deeper since he woke.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

His shouts bounce around the stone walls. He pauses. How loud does his voice need to be to carry? Craning to hear an answer from above, John's hands fly to his coat pocket for his mobile. He thumbs at the screen - perhaps there's a shred of reception. Nothing happens. He groans. The phone's been submerged for as long as he's been out cold. Shoving the lifeless device back into his pocket, a sudden bone-deep shiver passes through him.

“Buried alive, eh?” He turns the fear into more yelling.

Several minutes later, he stills. The echoes reverberate into silence. The water has risen almost to his knees.

“Who are you!” he screams toward the opening. “Get me out of here you sick, sodding bastard!” His thoughts race, but it’s all coming back in disconnected shards of memory that make no sense. Sherlock holding a baby… Mrs. Hudson in a… sports car? A mad genius sister running them through horrific trials…

So that’s it. He’s been drugged, on one of the... mad sister’s whims. Eris...Eros? What was her name and why is it slipping away from him? Might be the drug. He scrubs his face wishing he could sort fact from dream. Someone’s clearly dumped him here to terrify Sherlock into a frenzy of deduction. And he can’t do a thing to help him.

Tight-lipped, he channels his frustration toward the chain, kicking his leg hard, testing the strength of the rusty metal. He bites back a grunt as the length painfully chokes his kick mid-swing. He kicks again, then again, splashing water violently, hoping to loosen the bolts.

“Going to have a beauty of a bruise tomorrow,” he growls.

Panting, he kneels and orders himself to breathe slowly, sliding his fingers blindly along the links, cuff and bolts, feeling for any weakness. The metal is solid. He huffs, standing, pushing his freezing hands into his armpits and shaking his head.

“Honestly, Sherlock, who puts a bloody chain at the bottom of a well?" His hoarse voice echoes unnervingly. “Rusty enough to have been here awhile. This your sister’s idea of being welcomed into the family?” He’s dimly aware that he’s speaking to Sherlock. It steadies him.                
                   
“Guess we won’t invite her round for Christmas.” The well bounces his dry, mirthless laugh back to him. It’s a little like laughing with someone else.

As if Sherlock has just mentioned it, an idea occurs to him.

“Good thinking, that.” He plunges his stiff hands to the well floor, the slime of algae making him shudder. In this position, the water reaches his throat. He strains to keep his face above it.

The pads of John's fingers grope in slow, concentric circles for anything he could use to loosen the bolts. The water is over his chin when a surprised little “Oh” bursts from him with a bubble of hope as his hand bumps into something on its slow path across the ground.  
  
“Well then, what’s this–” The bubble pops as he closes his fingers, thick and clumsy, around his find. It’s thin, and even with the coating of algae, sickeningly familiar.

Pulling it close to his face to inspect it in the gloom, his eyes confirm what his hands knew – a bone, a femur, small enough to be a child’s, and it’s been here for ages. His hands dive back into the murky water searching along the floor until he comes across three more bones, then five, ribs and legs, a clavicle, and then the smooth dome of a small cranium. Pulling it from the water, he stares at the slick little skull in his shaking hands, then lunges to his feet, staggering in the rising water.

“Sherlock! Get me out of here!” His voice pitches high, cracks as the skull drops from his fingers into the water which is now just below his waist, the cold of it biting into his legs and wracking his body with shivers. He wraps his arms around himself and paces in the small circle the chain allows. This lunatic may have more than short-term suffering in mind for him.

“Think, damn you, just sod it and _think_. The water is rising, so it must be coming from somewhere in the floor I can't reach." He sighs wearily. "Unless I dunk." The thought is troubling. He’s already chilled. Completely submerging will drop his body temperature further. He steels himself.

"If I don’t do it now, it’ll soon be over my head anyway.” He pulls in a sharp breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and plunges under the surface.

Even with his heavy, sodden clothes, he’s too buoyant. It’s hard to keep himself parallel to the floor. With some twisting and bobbing, John makes a circuitous search of the wall in total blackness, the dull thud of water in his ears, his heartbeat drumming in his throat. His burning lungs send him up for a breath. Down again.

Bubbles gush from his mouth as his fingers suddenly bump into a short pipe that’s indeed set into the wall just above the floor. He can feel the force of the water surging out of it. Pushing back to the surface, he feels a small triumph: it’s narrow enough to block. When he stands, the water is up to his ribs.

Reluctantly, he peels off his jacket, jumper and shirt, cold fingers fumbling at the buttons, then struggles back into the sodden jumper. The cold, wet wool makes his skin crawl, but his mum’s voice comes to him across the years from some Lake District camping trip. _Wet wool keeps in warmth, but wet cotton will kill you._  Wet cotton is really the least of his worries at the moment, but if he can delay hypothermia a few minutes with wool against his skin, he'll take it. Sherlock would know, he's probably written a thesis on the insulating properties of over 200 forms of plant and animal fibers. The thought squeezes his heart. He glances up at the opening of the well, but finds it unchanged.

He dives back under the water. After some frantic groping, he finds the pipe again. With only his sense of touch, he jams the balled-up shirt into the opening with stiff fingers, staunching it briefly. The force of the flow pushes it back into his hands. With a silent curse, he surfaces for breath.

The water has crept up to his chest. A horrible thought occurs to him: the water would have been over the child’s head by now. He swallows very hard, suddenly overwhelmed with grief for this small person who endured such torment. At the same time, Sherlock’s grim, detached voice in his mind directs him to the obvious solution. John’s heart sinks. He needs to take several ragged breaths before he can submerge again.

On his next dive, he finds the femur, the thin ulna, a rib. He uses the bones to wedge the shirt deeper into the pipe, then his jacket. Surfacing for a fast breath, he returns to the pipe, relief surging through him to find the dam still wedged into place, the flow nearly stopped. He pops to the surface like a cork and gives a weak whoop of triumph.

The water is nearly at his shoulders. To get the blood moving in his cold limbs, he treads as much as the chain will allow. After a few minutes, he feels certain that the water level has not perceptibly changed.

Half treading, half bouncing, he yells himself hoarse calling to Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Harry, Moriarty, anyone. He’s met with the echoes of his voice ricocheting around the walls of the well. John cranes his neck up, trying to see into the darkness. He gasps as he sees a light – he yells out thinking it’s a flashlight – but the light is fixed, the thin point of a crescent moon rising high enough in the night sky to be glimpsed from down in the well. He slaps the surface of the water with frustration.

As the minutes grow long, he begins to feel panicky with nothing concrete to do, and dives down to check his dam. The force of the water has dislodged it and he keeps himself occupied trying to reinforce it with his grisly materials in the freezing darkness. But even with his treading, the cold of the water has sunk into his muscles and moving is becoming difficult, exhaustion pulling at him.

“Bloody hell,” his whispers. “Sherlock, where are you?”

  
 

. . .

 

The dam holds, but enough seeps through that by the time the moon is beginning to disappear behind the opposite edge of the well, the water is over his head when he stands, at his chin when he treads. The heavy chain tugs him down and his limbs feel leaden. _Rest,_ says the practical voice in his head, which sounds like Sherlock but uses his own medical knowledge. _Get your breath back._ John obeys, let’s himself sink, pushes at the floor, breaks the surface, sucks in air, submerges.

Inner Sherlock lists out the symptoms of hypothermia he should be watching for. He’s still shivering violently, which is good, but the exhaustion and clumsiness are bad. He doesn’t have Sherlock’s powers of deduction to know the temperature of the water, or gauge how long he’s been in it by how quickly it’s risen or how much the moon has moved. Realizing his thoughts are getting fuzzy, he doubles up his treading efforts, thinking forcibly of people he should be trying to stay alive for.

Mary… though his chest aches with conflicted feelings he’s not quite brave enough to face yet.

Rosie. So small, so new, but with such a fierce grip on his heart. He imagines not being there for her when she wakes next, crying and looking for comfort, not hearing her speak, watch her run away from him in the park after a flock of pigeons, make up bedtime stories… All stolen from him. Sherlock’s dispassionate voice tells him that this is all a clear sign of his human defect. John feels a wave of rage and roars as his head breaks the surface, kicking vainly against the chain.

Sherlock. Infuriating. Precious... The memory of him flies up unbidden: pale, unconscious and intubated, back in the hospital after his little escape act, after delivering to John the crushing revelation that he’d married an assassin. Exhausted, aching with self-loathing, bitter with his anger for Mary, he’d pulled his chair close to Sherlock’s bedside. Head bowed, not daring to touch him, he’d confessed everything, the entire contents of his heart, when he knew Sherlock couldn’t even hear him.

_“You should know, Sherlock. When I met you, I was given something amazing. Something precious. Saved my life. But I fled from it. I wanted it so badly, but I was terrified. Jesus, what did it say about me?_

_And you, one moment you were a heartless sociopathic prick and the next some brilliant, benevolent creature who could read my mind with a look. I knew I had been given something… but I had no idea what to do with it. I figured I could live that way, long as you were nearby, didn’t matter what it was._  
  
_“And then I lost you. I knew then that I’d wasted it. Utterly. I was broken. Worse than before I met you, because then I knew what I was missing. Tried moving on. God, what a bloody mess… couldn’t even do that properly. I thought she was (his voice cracks and the words are choked, almost silent) …thought she was safe._

_“And when you returned, Sherlock, what that did to me… You watch what you wish for, you just might get it. So yea, I got you back. But too late. All wrong. I should never have gone on with the wedding, but I was angry, so terribly angry... How could I ever forgive you for putting me through those two years? I made myself believe it was better this way._

_“It wasn’t. Even if this whole nightmare was what I’d actually thought it was. Marrying a nice woman, starting a family. I’d botched it. Knew it on my wedding day, bloody hell the things you said, your face..._

_“When you were away… I should have been helping you, should have been with you, Sherlock. (A long pause. He wipes his face, takes deep breaths as he’s been taught in therapy, and when he speaks again there is iron in his voice.)_  
  
_“Because it’s not the damn danger, Sherlock. It’s not, though we both know we love it. We’re more than that, always have been. We’re like some equation that doesn’t make any sense in its parts, then you put it together and it’s… it’s right. (Deep intake of breath) I realized, of course, much too late. It’s always been you, Sherlock. Only you. God, I love you._

_“There. Said it. Case you hadn’t deduced it already. So. Please, will you do this for me? Another miracle. Wake up. Be okay. For me. So I can try to get the courage to say this to your face one day. I can’t make this mistake again, Sherlock. Christ, if you’ll even have me…”_

Two days later, he’d woken. And John had never uttered another word about his midnight confession.

The wave of sorrow that hits John threatens to suck all the breath from his lungs. _Coward_. A yell bubbles out of him as he submerges again, sputters to the surface. The ache inside him is raw and horrible as John imagines leaving him behind, leaving him just a grave to talk to. _Idiots_. They shouldn’t have to learn this again. All the things John knows he should have said ages ago, that he was too afraid of, then too resentful to give. It burns in his chest. They’ve lost years.

No, he thinks, as he submerges, bobs, treads, gasps, submerges. It’s better this way, better to die his friend than to leave him with the burden of his love. _You’re still an idiot,_ Sherlock’s voice tells him reasonably. _I’ll be shattered either way. The definition of the relationship makes no difference._ John’s rage simmers into a dull misery as he reflexively bobs, treads, gasps, submerges, bobs. He's right, of course.

Minutes pass. The shivering is beginning to subside. _Bit not good_ , says his inner Sherlock. John’s face is tipped up to gasp at his last inch of air, his ears full of the dark rubbery sounds of water, but as he slides below again he thinks he sees movement in the gloom above. He struggles to kick back up when something heavy splashes next to him.

Impossibly, hands grip him, lifting his head above the surface. Warm arms wrap around his back, squeezing him fiercely. John sucks in breath raggedly, blinking water out of his eyes. But even if he were blind, he'd know. Though drenched in the foul water, the scent of Sherlock is strong as John lets his head drop onto his friend’s shoulder. He lets out a huff that's almost a laugh and mostly a sob. Sherlock, whose feet can touch the bottom, is panting as if he’d run a long distance to the well before clambering down. The rumble of his deep voice is muffled, vibrating against John’s chest.

John realizes Sherlock is shaking him gently, calling his name firmly –

“–got to stay with me, John. John? Tell me you can hear me–” and it grips his heart how calmly Sherlock is trying to speak, the quiver in it betraying him.

“Hear you,” John mumbles weakly against his shoulder, and rallies his hands to briefly squeeze Sherlock’s back.

“Good. Excellent, John, now listen. There’s a rope, we can climb out.” John groans against Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Sorry, so sorry, can’t, stuck. Tried to get free,” His taller friend’s head is above the water line and he snaps to attention. Sherlock grips him tightly against his chest and pulls up, hitting the resistance of the chain. Deductions race across his eyes.

“There is something holding you down–”

“Chain, on my right foot,” he mumbles apologetically. “Padlock. Little kid’s bones.” He wants to be helpful, to speed up his escape, but he can tell the last detail startles Sherlock.

“John, the rope isn't long enough for you to reach from your position. Take a deep breath. I have to let go of you while I dive down. Good, there, take another, and one more. I’ll be right back to hold you up. Okay, ready, here we go.”

Sherlock lets go of him and John slips below the water, arms flailing out to bob himself higher, but the weight of the chain pulls him below the surface. He feels Sherlock perform a tidy surface dive, feels hands at his ankles, tugging the chain, assessing in the darkness. He tries to be patient, but soon John’s lungs are burning. His hands grope through the water for Sherlock, find a leg, tug.

With a swirl of wake Sherlock is back, pulling John above the surface, pulling him close against his chest to rest his chin on his shoulder again and let him float and breathe, giving him warmth. Despite his dire circumstances, John is vividly aware of how tightly they are twined together, though surely it’s just to keep him warm.

“John I don’t want to alarm you, but I believe the water level has risen since I arrived in the well.” John practically barks out a laugh into his shoulder.

“Nice of you to notice. Been some trouble, that. I blocked the pipe. Slowed it down.”

“You did? How?” John mutters his solution and is surprised when Sherlock gives him a quick, fierce squeeze.

“Brilliant, John.” Despite the freezing water, he feels warmth spread through his chest at the unexpected praise. “But you’re not shivering enough for this temperature. You've been exposed too long and are likely going into shock judging by your exhaustion and mumbled speech. We need to get you out and warm as quickly as possible. We must unlock this chain now.”

“No key, looked,” John murmurs against his shoulder. Now that he has something to rest on, the weariness has flooded him and he lets his eyes slide closed. “Don’t s’pose you brought your lock pick.” He is surprised to feel Sherlock’s chuckle deep in his chest, rumbling against his own.

“Of course I did.” Relief washes over John at this incredible information, stirring his mind into wakefulness. “But it’s been a while since I’ve picked a lock in the dark, underwater, upside down.”

John reluctantly pushes away from his warmth. “Go fast, I’m okay for a bit, I think.”

Sherlock locks eyes with him. They both pull in huge lung-fulls of air, and at Sherlock’s nod they drop beneath the water.

Knowing he needs to stay still for Sherlock to pick the lock, John makes himself drift limply. He pushes back the doubts creeping in, mentally urging Sherlock on as if the thoughts could travel to him through the water. _You found me in time. You’re brilliant. Get us out of here, I want to go home._

Suspended in the darkness, John can feel Sherlock’s hands and limbs brushing around him like a murky sea creature, the minute tugs and pulls at the lock. In his delirious state he imagines being rescued not from above by rope, but from below, Sherlock swimming up to him like some, beautiful landlocked selky.

John hears a  _clik_ through the water and knows he’s done it. The strain on his leg evaporates and he suddenly buoys up higher in the water. As his head breaks the surface, he greedily sucks in air, weakly treading water with two free legs, but not for long. Sherlock splashes to the surface next to him, gasping, and pulls John against him with a fierceness that surprises him. They breathe together like this for several heartbeats. Sherlock's dark curls are limp and dripping over John's face. Even on tiptoe now, Sherlock’s chin is just out of the water.

“Thank you,” John pants quietly against his shoulder. Then, because he might explode from the fierce emotion, “What took you so bloody long to get here?”

“Couldn’t find you,” Sherlock rumbles against his ear. John can feel his big hands clench on his back. His voice is muffled and strained, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry it took me so long, John. Please forgive me.” Sherlock sucks in a few long, shuddering breaths, but then a wave of shivering hits them both. “Let’s get out of here.”

John gives a small groan of exhaustion as, relief waning, he skeptically eyes the slender rope Sherlock used to descend into the well.

“Not sure I can climb.” He can hardly curl his stiff hands into fists and his legs feel like field stones. “Anyone up there? To help?”

“No, though the authorities should be on their way judging by the size of the fire I started.”

_“Fire?”_

“I’ll explain _after_ we get you out of here. We could unjam the pipe and float until the water level lifts us higher,” Sherlock reasons, “but we’d probably _both_ die of hypothermia well before then.”

“Be a real waste of a lovely bit of underwater lock-picking. Your nutter of a sister must be having a grand time watching you dance.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash angrily. “She’s been subdued. Nothing to fear from her at the moment.” Mouth tight with concern, he side-swims John over to the wall and puts the rope in his hands. John realizes that not even Sherlock can easily touch the bottom now. The reality of his timing with the lock makes him shudder. His teeth begin to chatter again and he’s shaking.

“John, I’m going to climb out and make something to carry you out with. I won’t be long.”

Sherlock pulls away from him and reaches up for the rope. John immediately misses his warmth. Even though he sees the logic, the very idea of being left in the well alone again horrifies him, but he just bites his lip and nods, aware that Sherlock is only inches away watching him very closely. He puts a hand around John’s.

“Just hang onto the rope, John. Keep breathing.” Sherlock stops abruptly, eyeing him critically, and seems to come to a quick conclusion. Holding onto the rope, he uses his free hand to rapidly unbutton his own sodden shirt. John squints at him with confusion, feeling his face warm.

“What are you–” but Sherlock’s already pulled off and threaded his shirt under John’s arms and around his back, knotting the sleeves tightly to the rope. John feels tenderly bemused as understanding dawns on him. Should he lose consciousness, his head won’t slip underwater. Sherlock tugs on the knots.

“John, should I be… delayed and the water rise, you can push these knots up the rope. Show me your hands aren’t too cold for this.” John obediently, if clumsily, nudges the knots upward. Sherlock nods approval. He then gently pulls Johns hands from the rope to cross his arms over his chest. “Let my shirt hold your weight. Keep your arms tight to your body, it will prevent loss of heat.” He looks right into John’s face, his words like steel. “I’m coming back for you.”

John can’t trust his voice so he just nods curtly. Sherlock flashes him a sudden, unexpected smile and pulls himself up the rope in a strong, lithe movement. Water drips off of him as he climbs, pattering onto John below. He watches him scale the distance with surprising steadiness and speed, oddly touched at the sight of his long bare feet gripping the rope.

High above, Sherlock briefly blocks out the crescent moon as he pulls himself over the edge and disappears from view.

 …

The wait is hell.

John’s tightly-coiled panic would propel him out of the well if his numb hands could only grip the rope. Shaking like a poplar leaf, the cold in his body is a dull throb.

“S’good to shiver,” he reasons. “Shivering is heat. Not shivering’s dead.”

Dangling in the water from the shirt-sling, arms tightly hugging his chest in a poor facsimile of Sherlock, John tries to distract himself. What is he doing out there? He imagines Sherlock running barefoot and shirtless across the moor under a crescent moon, wet curls flying. _Never could resist a touch of the dramatic._ He can picture him mentally constructing a hundred potential rescue operations in an instant, irritably brushing his hand aside to scatter them, letting only the most plausible one remain.

“Alright, be brilliant, Sherlock. But hurry it up.”

The well feels like it’s shrinking in around him, the sensation of being buried alive making his breath rapid and shallow. He tries not to think of how much deeper the water might be if the child’s bones had not helped him hold back the flow. _They couldn’t save you,_ he ponders miserably, _but you saved me._  

Twice he’s nudged the knots of his shirt-sling up the rope. Sherlock’s been gone much too long and his imagination is beginning to jump to frantic, delirious conclusions: Sherlock’s been captured by Euros and needs John to rescue him; he’s secretly joined forces with Moriarty and they’re watching his demise on camera; The Woman has him at gunpoint. John shakes himself to scatter the ghosts, muttering, “Stop it, _stop_ it now.”

“John! John, I’m here!” Sherlock suddenly leans over the side of the well, his voice bouncing around the walls as he lowers a bulky bundle from another rope.

_He came back._

Tears spring to John’s eyes and his throat constricts so tightly he can't call back. _Come on, keep it together._

"John? _John!"_ There is panic in Sherlock's voice.

"Here," John croaks, then calls more loudly, "Still here."

"John!" Even from so far down, Sherlock's relief is palpable. John feels warmed by his friend's concern. "I'm going to get you out. Right now. I’ve made a makeshift sling. I'm throwing it down now - can you get in? Can you hold on?”

The heavy jumble of rope unwinds down the well shaft and hits the water with a slap. Though he tries to unravel it, John’s hands are too stiff, his limbs too sluggish to make sense of it. Sherlock sees and quickly shimmies back down the rope, splashing into the water next to him. He utters a small gasp as the cold hits him anew.

John clings to his shirt-sling and watches with quiet admiration as Sherlock loosens a slip knot and unfurls the ropes, knotted and crossed to create a kind of harness. He deftly guides John into it, treading and dunking to get the right ropes under and around his legs, chest and arms.

Awkwardly floating in his bulky harness, John wonders if the rope is really going to hold his weight. Sherlock gives a final decisive tug on a knot. He speaks slowly, deliberately, as if John’s already-inferior mind cannot comprehend speech in his frozen, half-drowned state.

“I’m going to climb out now and pull you up, John. I’ll just be right outside the well.” John wonders if Sherlock can deduce how frightened he’s been. He worries now about how his reedy friend could possibly lug him all the way up single-handedly. Sherlock grips his shoulder reassuringly. “There’s a young beech tree nearby I can use for leverage.” John nods weakly while Sherlock climbs up and away. _Course he can. Bloody mind reader._

Before the panic can seize him again, John feels a tug. The ropes tighten and he marvels as they snug against his back, around his legs and shoulders, dispersing his weight evenly, if uncomfortably. It’s brilliant. Three tugs and he’s cleared the water, dripping and bumping lightly against the rough stones. He wishes he could help, but all he can do is cling to the rope and watch as the opening of the well creeps closer. Glancing below, the dark water slips away from him. _Free, nearly free._ He wonders with a little jolt what could be waiting for them outside the well. His eyelids feel leaden, his thoughts sluggish. _Must stay awake long enough to ask Sherlock what he knows… ask what he set on fire…_

He’s so close to the opening that John could reach out and touch the topmost edge. His whole body aches for it. The bumps stop and the rope shakes a bit. Likely being tied off. Dangling and shivering, he’s suddenly very aware of the open air beneath him, the long fall into the freezing water below should he bungle getting out of the harness. A jolt of adrenaline shivers through him.

Sherlock’s face appears at the edge, so close, pale and breathless. He reaches down to him. With a grip like iron, he pulls John out over the well’s mossy lip onto the grass. Taking his weight, Sherlock half-drags him away from the edge. John’s legs have no strength and buckle beneath him. He collapses against Sherlock in a pile of sodden rope.

“Jesus bloody Christ,” John gasps as relief floods through him. Sherlock drops beside him panting, but only rests a moment, springing up to untangle the rope from John’s limbs. It’s dark, but the rustling shapes around them tell John _forest_. He stares up at the starry sky with reverence, feeling as if he’s just been exhumed. After several moments of fussing over him, Sherlock’s voice breaks through the fog settling heavily in John’s mind.

 “—proper response to hypothermia is to remove all of your wet clothing before wrapping you warmly. It’s dark, but I hope you won’t feel it an invasion of privacy if I–”

 “S’fine, Sherlock.” He can’t help but chuckle. “I don’t mind.”

 _This is all clinical, survival,_ John tells himself firmly as Sherlock’s hands fly over his skin, deftly removing his ruined shoes and socks, peeling off his sodden jumper, jeans and pants _._ The air is cold on his skin and he shivers violently, but he’s quickly wrapped in something heavy and warm. It’s surprisingly silky against his skin.

“Where’d you find blankets?” he asks thickly, incredulous. Sherlock is wrapping his dry suit jacket around John’s feet.

 “John, your currently compromised state is the only excuse for your lack of observation. This is not a _blanket_.”

John plucks at it, smells wool-and-Sherlock. “Your coat,” he smiles, shivering. “Ta.”

Sherlock gives him a lopsided grin, then, seemingly satisfied with his makeshift cocoon, sits closely behind him, wrapping his long limbs around John for maximum contact. Sherlock drops his chin to John’s shoulder wearily, his voice rumbling in his ear. “Just rest now, I’ll do what I can to keep you warm. Help will be here soon.” Sherlock sounds exhausted as the adrenaline of his rescue ebbs away.

Though he is aching with cold, the sheer ridiculousness of the moment hits him: sitting in Sherlock’s arms, naked in his precious Belstaff, _alive_. A wave of giddiness washes over him. He giggles, then clears his throat, trying to sound serious.

“Sherlock, if I’m dying of hypothermia, aren’t you s’posed to be starkers in the coat _with_ me?” Sherlock’s arms twitch. John wonders if it’s possible to _feel_ someone blush.

“Don’t be dramatic, John. While your condition is clearly serious, you are still able to follow basic instructions and respond to conversation. You are not in fact dying, though it would be unwise for you to move very much lest the cold blood in your extremities flow too quickly through your heart or other organs. Cardiac arrest is a possibility. The well water was roughly 45 degrees, making it less likely.”

John grins sleepily at his logistical ramble, obviously a cover for a strong emotion.

“Additionally, your first-responder information is sorely outdated,” Sherlock lectures. “Studies have found that skin-to-skin contact is not as effective in increasing body temperature during hypothermic shock as when the victim is encouraged to shiver to a normal internal temperature in warm, dry conditions. I’m a poor replacement for a hot water bottle, but I’ll do my best.”

“Mm, no, feels nice.” He chuckles wearily. “Thanks. For, y’know. Everything. It was brilliant, your rescue.” He heaves a weary sigh and sinks into him, shivering, reveling in the warmth of the cocoon. “You got there just in time.” Now that he’s on solid ground, he can actually say the words. "Few minutes more and the water would’ve been over my head.”

Sherlock, shivering a little in his own damp clothes, tucks his chin against John’s shoulder and doesn’t respond. He tightens his grip on him, as if he could squeeze away the cold that’s sunk deep into John’s bones.

Minutes slide by in silence and as weariness slips over him, John marvels at the simplest things: fresh wind pushing at his face; the sound of trees rustling all around them; the sensation of Sherlock’s breath against his neck. He shivers and shivers.

“I’m so sorry–” Sherlock mutters into the thick wool of the coat. “I took too long. I thought I knew where you were, thought it was a trick she was playing… if I’d realized, if I’d seen through it sooner, I’d have gotten to you faster.”

John swallows around a lump in his throat, Sherlock’s emotion startling him. “S’okay, you got me. In the nick of time, sure, but, you know, it was fine–”

“It _wasn’t_ fine, John,” Sherlock snaps fiercely. “One mist-step and you’d have died.” Sherlock sucks in a rough breath. “ _My_ fault. This experience will have lasting trauma for you. I’m just… I’m so sorry…”

John is shivering too hard, too compressed by Sherlock’s fierce embrace to do much more than nudge him with his head. “Hey, look, we’re okay. We’ve gotten out of scrapes before. We’ll be alright. I just want to go home.”

“Home.” Sherlock says flatly. “Yes, I’m sure Mary will be livid that I nearly let you die.”

John feels his pulse speed up, his mouth go dry.

It feels safe in the darkness, surrounded by Sherlock. He sucks in a deep breath.

_Here goes._

“I didn’t mean that home.”

Sherlock tenses around him.

“Look… if–if you’ll have me, and Rosie, when she’s with me, I… I want to come back. To Baker Street.”

The silence stretches out. Shivering, aching as warmth begins to spread through his limbs, John feels a twist of panic. He’s misread everything. He’s a right idiot, spoiled it all, just when they were beginning to find their rhythm again.

“Sorry, I… if you’d rather not–”

“You should know,” Sherlock cuts through his stammer. “At the hospital. At my bedside. I heard you. When you told me… _things._ ”

 _“Oh.”_ John’s insides curdle. “You did. _Shite…_ look, um, I–”

“Did you mean it, what you said?”

John’s head spins. In the darkness, in his shivering, exhausted state, he can’t tell if Sherlock _wants_ him to have meant it, or is terrified that he did.

_Sod this. Out with it._

 “I… yes. All of it. Every word.”

Sherlock re-doubles his pressure all around John, burying his face against his neck, wet warmth on his skin.

_Oh god, this is happening._

“Then, yes,” Sherlock whispers into the crook of John’s shoulder. “I want you to come back to Baker Street. Very badly.”

John swivels to face him as much as he can in Sherlock’s fierce grip. Their eyes catch and spark.

“In what… capacity?” John breathes.

Sherlock shifts the coat-cocoon until their faces are close.

“All of them.”

John’s chest fills with effervescent tingles, a flush creeping up his neck. The flimsiness of the coat wrapped around him is suddenly very apparent.

“What I said, at your bedside,” John shivers, but pushes past it. “It’s the same. For you.”

Sherlock’s voice is barely more than a breath.

“Obviously.”

John feels his grin bloom on his face, sees it mirrored on Sherlock’s as he huffs a quick, relieved laugh. He slides a shaky hand up to hold Sherlock’s face firmly, tenderly, his thumbs lightly stroking the damp skin below his eyes.

“Sherlock. _Christ,”_ he blusters. “I _love_ you. I think I’ve probably always loved you.”

 Sherlock inhales hard, a sob catching in his throat. “John,” he rumbles hoarsely. “Yes. Always. I’ve loved you. Since the beginning.”

John squeezes his eyes shut tight and smiles broadly, tears making tracks down his cheeks. He sniffs, his voice rough.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry it took me so long. To tell you.”

Sherlock swiftly closes the distance between their faces and John gives a surprised little gasp against his mouth. Sherlock’s lips are on his own. Moth-wing soft. He cups the curve of John’s skull and pulls him closer. John runs his hands into Sherlock’s damp, unkempt curls and melts into him.

There are so many kisses woven into this first tangle of lips and breath. The kiss they should have shared in the entryway of 221B the night Sherlock cured John’s limp. It would have tasted of laughter. Kisses in the backs of cabs. Kisses after adrenaline-fueled chases. Kisses to quiet nightmares; after brilliant deductions; after a life saved; after a subway bomb was disarmed and a bitter lie forgiven. Kisses to smooth harsh words; kisses when John left for the surgery, and more when he returned home.

A cold shiver runs through John. Sherlock pulls back to read his eyes, brow furrowing with concern.

“Okay?”

John’s hands slide from Sherlock’s back to hold either side of his face, precious. His eyes try to swallow him, the way he is now, rumpled, damp from the well, creased with weariness and worry, but bright-eyed, glowing. John’s chest aches with a painful joy.

 _This_. It sits raw and new and fragile in their trembling hands.

“John–” Overwhelmed, Sherlock burrows his face into his shoulder, clings to him. John nuzzles his neck and rubs his back while their hearts thunder together between them. John is considering kissing him again when the familiar, tinny whine of sirens becomes audible through the trees. Sherlock’s head snaps up.

“About _time.”_ Sherlock anxiously gives John a considering look. “I know you won’t like this, but John, you need medical care. I want…” he sucks in a breath. “I want more than _anything_ to take you home this instant, wrap up you in front of the fire and never stop kissing you.”

“Yes, _that.”_ John murmurs against his chest.

“We need you looked at tonight, properly, to be sure there’s no lasting damage.”

John groans, sleepily burrowing against Sherlock as he shivers, as much from cold as from the adrenaline of kissing. Suddenly, the weary pout sharpens into a very real fear. What if Euros anticipated this, has people waiting in the local hospital to spirit him away? The sirens grow louder, their pitch changing as they draw nearer.

He feels Sherlock reading his face in the dim light. He bends to press a gentle kiss to John’s forehead. “I’ll be with you the whole time. Right at your side while you sleep. First thing you’ll see when you wake up. It’s over, no one can take you from me now.”

The fear that had bubbled up in his chest quickly quiets. “One night. Say… say you’re my husband. So they don’t make you go,” John mumbles.

“Well, that should be an easy enough ruse,” Sherlock chuckles and presses kisses into his hair.

John grins blearily at his own cleverness.

“Who said anything about a ruse?”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (I don't think I'll be adding more to this beastie, but if you want to read more and don't mind a new backstory, please check out my fic, Sacre Coeur. It has a very different take on the well scene, but ends in parentlock nevertheless!)


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